


Love Bites

by Gem_Gem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Actually Slash, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Annoyed John, Attempt at humour, Awkward Sexual Situations, Biting, Gen, Love Bites, M/M, Marking, Mild Sexual Content, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possibly Pre-Slash, Premature Ejaculation, Ridiculous Sherlock, Rough biting, Sexual Tension, silliness, surprise orgasms, that escalated quickly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 21:57:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4036003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Bite my neck.”</p><p> </p><p>Translated to Russian by Helen a.k.a <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/7219348?view_full_work=true">Little_Unicorn</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Засосы](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7219348) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> This was fun to write. It had me giggling whilst I typed...that's a good thing right? It doesn't just mean I'm an insane person? Right?
> 
> If you liked it, let me know and leave me a comment, I love hearing back from people, it warms my heart and makes me smile!
> 
>  
> 
> Translated to Russian by Helen a.k.a Little_Unicorn : [Ficbook.net](https://ficbook.net/readfic/3361968)

“Bite my neck.”

John looked up from the newspaper he had been reading and stared, then frowned, then dropped the paper to his lap with a sigh. “Sorry, what?”

Sherlock sighed and gestured to his throat with his fingers, leaning down to John to give him better access, arching his throat, “Bite my neck.”

“Why?” John asked instead of stating that no, he would not be biting his neck, like he had meaning to do. He eyed the line of Sherlock’s neck, the fluttering of a steady pulse, and the bob of an Adam’s apple, then looked back up to Sherlock’s face. 

“It’s an experiment for a case,” Sherlock told him, bracing his arms on the armrests of John’s chair as he leaned further forward into John's personal space. “Love bites, what do you know of them?”

John blinked and moved his head back to look at Sherlock better, “You want me to give you a hickey?”

“No. I want you to bite my neck, then give me a “hickey”.” Sherlock told him impatiently.

“Why?”

Sherlock sighed through his teeth with frustration and stood up straight so quickly that John felt overbalanced in sympathy, “One alibi rests on the difference between them; the healing factor concerning both a real bite and a love bite that one receives during sexual acts and if you can disguise one for another.” Sherlock said as he moved to lounge back on the settee. “Typically how long do love bites last for?”

“Around twelve days or so? They’re like any other minor bruise,” John replied, narrowing his eyes on Sherlock and then folding the newspaper up defiantly. “There is no case, no alibi, is there? You’ve just never had one and want one to find out what all the fuss is about, don’t you? I saw the way you stared at the mark on the receptionist’s neck last week when you thought it prudent to just show up at the surgery while I was with a patient and--”

“Fine. I find it utterly curious why people enjoy being bruised in such a way. At first I thought it to be a sort of animal instinct to mark ones partner, and a way to show off that you belong to someone, but then I noticed how hard some people then try to hide and cover up the bruises,” Sherlock said with a small frown, motioning in bewilderment with one hand and a small shake of the head. 

John rubbed the bridge of his nose, “Sherlock, people like a range of things for various reasons. They might want it in the heat of the moment but then become embarrassed by it after so try and cover it.”

Sherlock looked at John as if he hoped John was being deliberately obtuse, “Are you going to give me a love bite or not?”

“No,” John sighed.

“Why not?” Sherlock whinged.

“Sherlock, love bites are for people in a relationship, a sexual one.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “If you don’t do it, then I shall be forced to find someone who will.”

Jon gaped in shock, “You’re going to ask strangers to suck you on the neck?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, voice clipped as he glanced nonchalantly at his nails.

“…No you won’t.”

“Won’t I?” Sherlock challenged with an arched eyebrow.

Sending him a disbelieving and un-amused look, John unfolded the newspaper again, “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yes. Fine. Go do that. Have fun,” John mumbled, rustling the paper with a condescending smile and then hiding behind it when Sherlock’s face fell.

John only managed to count to twenty before Sherlock was up in his personal space again, shoving the newspaper down with one hand and scowling, “No one will know it had been you.”

“No,” John said shortly, trying to tug the paper free.

“…You just have to do it this once.”

“No.”

“You should feel honoured that I chose you in the first place,” Sherlock huffed.

John gave up on trying to wrestle the newspaper back from Sherlock and looked up at him with a sigh, “No, Sherlock!”

Sherlock sulked for a moment and then turned his head away, giving John a side-on glance a second later, “…Please?” he offered.

“Why do you want this so much?” John asked in aggravation before he sighed, deep and loud. “If I do it, will you promise to stop stuffing the fridge with body parts for at least two weeks? And! And, will you promise to stop thinking up these frankly ridiculous experiments?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together in false thought and tilted his head, “Not sure about the latter—I don’t find any experiment to be ridiculous! They all serve a purpose.”

“Really?” John scoffed. “What the bloody hell kind of purpose does this one serve? Other than to force me into a difficult situation where I am to suck the skin of my best friend’s neck?”

Sherlock puffed out a breath, seemingly put-upon, and it warmed John’s face with the scent of coffee, “You’ll bruise me any other way but this way?”

“Yes,” John said quickly, then blinked, frowned and leaned forward when Sherlock lifted his brow. “No, wait, what exactly do you mean by that?” 

“You will do it though?” Sherlock asked, bypassing John’s question completely as if he hadn’t heard him.

“Sherlock--”

“I promise I won’t fill the fridge with body parts for two weeks, and anymore experiments deemed ridiculous by you I’ll take elsewhere,” Sherlock said, placing one of his long-fingered hands to his chest in a sincere motion. “All right?”

John glared at him but nodded slowly, hating himself for not thinking up more things he could make Sherlock not do, if Sherlock was indeed sincere in his promises, which John wasn’t sure he was, “Okay…” 

Sherlock’s smile was mischievous and overly bright, but was gone in the next instance, “Brilliant. Go on then.”

He kneeled at John’s feet and leaned forward offering his throat with a cocking of his head and rolling of his shoulders as he moved further forward. John glowered at the side profile of Sherlock’s face for a moment or two, debating whether to ask to do it on Sherlock’s arm instead, but took the open opportunity and gripped Sherlock’s curls none too gently in the next second and pulled his head further aside with a rough and strong yank that made Sherlock grunt and frown. Sherlock didn’t complain though, merely clicked his tongue softly and braced his hands on the armrests of John’s chair.

John unlocked his jaw and picked the patch of skin that thrummed with Sherlock’s pulse to descend upon, closing his mouth over it and sucking almost aggressively. The taste of Sherlock’s skin was something John never thought he’d know and it threw him briefly as it mixed with the way Sherlock smelled up close. It was thick, dark, masculine and spicy and only made John suck harder with a reassertion of his grip on Sherlock’s hair. The pulse trapped between his lips picked up speed with a sudden fluttering and John slipped his gaze to the side trying to gauge Sherlock’s expression but his view was obscured by the curve of Sherlock’s neck, the jutting of his Adam’s apple and the sharp lines of Sherlock’s jaw.

Increasing the suction as hard as he dared, John then moved back and let Sherlock’s skin go with a wet pop. The mark was flushed dark red and mottled purple, glistening with John’s saliva. John grimaced at the sight and wiped it dry with his fingers, looking over at Sherlock’s face expectantly.

“Well?” John asked. “Happy now?”

“No,” Sherlock replied a tad moodily. “You didn’t bite me. I asked for you to bite me.”

“You asked for a hickey, and that’s exactly what you’ve now got,” John stated, not letting Sherlock straighten, and shaking him with the grasp on his hair for good measure.

“I asked for both,” Sherlock corrected, grabbing at John’s wrist with a glare. “Aren’t you supposed to bite during a love bite anyway?”

“Suction is what bursts the blood vessels,” John told him. “Biting can be involved but it doesn’t give the bruise that you saw on Kate’s neck at the surgery, sucking the skin does that.”

Sherlock adjusted his position on his knees and nudged John’s arm, “Do it again, this time with teeth.”

John opened his mouth to refuse, took a breath through his nose, clenched his jaw, and then leaned forward to bite down on a new patch of skin, digging his teeth in a little harder than he would have done to a woman. Sherlock jerked and tensed in reaction, grunting, and John felt him swallow as John sucked skin passed his teeth so crudely that it scraped along his teeth in the process.

To get back at Sherlock, John tugged on Sherlock’s head again to arch his neck more, giving John more access, and added more pressure to his bite, grinding his teeth somewhat. Sherlock hissed and grabbed at John’s jumper but John only swatted his hand away, increased the pull of the skin in his teeth and then jerked his head back, letting go with a half-hearted glare. 

The new mark was darker than the one previous and was ringed with the red indentation of John’s mouth, it looked angry and faintly inflamed, standing out strongly against the creamy paleness of the rest of Sherlock’s skin. John wiped that one dry also with his fingertips and then pushed Sherlock back hard enough to knock him onto his backside.

Sherlock looked up at him dazedly and reached for his neck with one hand, touching the marks lightly, “I get the feeling you’re not that rough when you’ve done them in the past,” he murmured, getting to his feet and walking to look at them in the mirror with interest, his cheeks slightly flushed.

John watched him and then flattened out the newspaper idly, “Depended on the situation and the woman. Some liked it rough.”

Sherlock’s eyes locked with his in the reflection and then flitted away as he amended the state of his shirt collar, combed a hand through his mussed hair and turned to wander off without another word, one hand lifting to touch his neck again just as he disappeared from John’s sight.

John cleared his throat, shifted his weight on the chair, and licked his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ask and you shall receive...
> 
> Let me know what you think. Comments are love, comments are life.

John saw the marks the following day as Sherlock shuffled passed draped in his dressing gown, and John paused on his way to butter his toast, eyes wide at the sight of them. The bruises were darker than before, the second one more so, its outline little purple, vivid circles from where John’s teeth had dug a tad too roughly, still swollen and red on the outer edges. 

“Jesus,” John muttered and reached out to grab Sherlock by the shoulder, pulling him down and smoothing a thumb over them.

“What?” Sherlock asked in puzzlement for a second, rolling his eyes the next and trying to shrug out of John’s grip. “It’s fine. Leave them. I did ask for them, remember?”

John took another close look at the marks, glanced at Sherlock’s expression, and let him go, “Yeah, but…I forgot how rough I’d been—have you been rubbing them?”

Sherlock adjusted the collar of his dressing gown, subconsciously brushing the material against his neck, and flicked his gaze from John, “No.”

“You have, haven’t you? That’s why they look more…angry.” John said with a frown, going back to his toast. “Don’t. It’ll take longer for them to heal if you do that…”

Humming dismissively, Sherlock stepped over to turn the kettle on and fidgeted, leaning against the kitchen counter, picking at his sleeves, and shuffling his feet. John watched him from the corner of his eyes and then turned with his arms crossed when Sherlock scratched his neck once, then twice, poking his fingers into the bruises with a purposeful twist and drumming the fingers of his other hand along the rim of his mug. Sherlock glanced at him only briefly and touched the marks once more with another purposeful stroke, index finger tracing through the middle of them.

“What is it?” John asked with a sigh.

“What?” Sherlock frowned innocently.

John cocked his head and lifted his eyebrows with a light crinkling of his forehead, “I thought you wanted them for an experiment or something? Picking at them will surely affect the outcome? Normally, you see, people don’t continuously mess with the hickeys once they have them, not unless they enjoy the slight discomfort pressing on a bruise brings, or they do so subconsciously. Or, I suppose, they could do it to be constantly reminded that they’ve been marked but the way you--” John stopped talking suddenly and slowly unfolded his arms.

Sherlock wasn’t looking at him; in fact he was acting like John wasn’t even there, that he hadn’t spoken, and John stared at him silently as Sherlock tapped an unsystematic beat on the counter with his knuckles and turned away once the kettle clicked. He made himself a mug of coffee, still fidgeting somewhat, and took it to the table with him, stealing John’s toast.

“Sherlock?” John began, unsure if he wanted to berate Sherlock for taking his toast or to continue what he hadn’t finished. “Look at me a moment, would you?”

“Why?” Sherlock asked around a mouthful of toast, eyes downcast as he made a grab for the morning paper.

John huffed, made himself another few rounds of toast, a cup of tea, and then sat down with Sherlock at the table, leaning across to catch his gaze, “Sherlock…”

Sherlock lifted his head but kept his eyes down, “Hm?”

Sighing deeply, John pulled his chair in and leaned on his elbows as he tried to work out the best way to word what he was going to say, “Sherlock--”

“What, John?” Sherlock snapped, finally looking up and locking eyes with him. Sherlock’s face was blank; eyes even blanker, and he motioned to John impatiently as he took another mouthful of toast.

John clenched his jaw and returned Sherlock’s blank look with one of his own, before he reached across the table and wound his fingers into the soft lapels of Sherlock’s dressing gown. “You said that I’d only have to do it once, and even then I technically did it twice,” John said.

Sherlock blinked at him and chewed slowly, then swallowed with a gulp of coffee, “I know.”

“…So?”

“So?” Sherlock echoed.

John scowled and tightened his grip, “You want me to give you another. Don’t you? Hm? And you want to see how long you can keep the others from healing too. I know this because you all but told me so just now.”

Sherlock took another gulp of coffee, “Did I?”

“You liked it. You reacted to the rough treatment and you liked it,” John went on, narrowing his eyes on Sherlock. “Oh! So, so not only are you trying to prolong the healing process, but you’re trying to understand how you liked the discomfort? Is that it?”

“You tell me,” Sherlock replied impassively.

John exhaled and looked away, then glanced at his hand still holding Sherlock’s dressing gown, and loosened enough to pull away but stopped just shy of letting go and looked up at Sherlock’s throat, zeroing in on the jumping pulse. The sight made John grin broadly, but instead of gloating like he thought he’d do, John yanked Sherlock across the table strongly.

Sherlock seemed to have been expecting it however and moved his coffee aside just as he was pulled bodily towards him. John hadn’t been so insightful and his tea juddered and then fell sideways as he gripped Sherlock’s head and dressing gown both, pulling them opposite ways to bare the unmarked side of Sherlock’s neck for John’s teeth and mouth.

The scent of Sherlock was stronger, spicier, and John inhaled through his nose deeply as he simultaneously bit down and sucked the skin into his mouth. Sherlock was pliant in his hands for a moment with a shudder and then arched, and pushed into John with a strong and eager motion that put his full weight onto the table with a creak. 

John huffed into his throat and jerked his chair back, dragging Sherlock from it and half into his lap, staining Sherlock’s pyjamas and gown in spilled tea in the process. Sherlock’s pulse thundered harshly under John’s impulsive and fervent tongue, picking up as John adjusted him roughly on his lap with the ease of an experienced lover.

When John let Sherlock’s neck go John was breathing heavily and seemingly out of his mind as he heaved the neckline wider and moved his mouth down to attach to Sherlock’s protruding collarbone, biting it with an overbearing urge to mark and bruise every inch of Sherlock’s pale skin. 

John moved to Sherlock’s chest and the edge of a pink nipple before he lurched back at the abrupt ringing of the phone. The chair under him gave a faint screech of warning and then tipped backwards, bringing John and Sherlock crashing to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

John gasped at having the wind knocked out of him by the fall and Sherlock falling on top of him, and then groaned, struggling to crawl away and check on his flatmate at the same moment, “Ow! Shit…ow—are you okay?”

“Fine,” Sherlock grunted, rolling away to lie flat on his back as John struggled to his feet and righted the chair. Sherlock then puffed out a breath and laughed, chuckling deep and loud, rolling onto his side, one side of his dressing gown drenched in tea.

John looked down at him and after a moment couldn’t keep his own giggles at bay. Through his squinted and crinkled eyes John stared down at the new dark, glistening mark on Sherlock’s throat with a slow unfurling of heat.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that escalated quickly...

“Thanks for coming so quickly,” Lestrade said as he jogged over to meet them from the taxi. “Body is through there, half buried in the back garden in compost and mud. Apparently it had been done late last night, between approximately eleven-thirty and twelve at night, according to forensics. No one heard or saw anything and we have no clue who the murdered victim is presently because—what’s that on your neck?”

John stumbled with a sudden flush and looked over just in time to see as Lestrade reached and pulled Sherlock’s collar down with wide, disbelieving eyes and a crooked, amused mouth. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice the change in topic, nor the tug at his collar, as he was too intent on their destination, eyes alight with interest, but as Lestrade peeled more of the collar away in shocked hilarity, Sherlock’s stride faltered.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock! What the bloody hell happened? Did you get mauled by some overexcited fan or something?” Lestrade chortled, gripping and moving Sherlock’s scarf when Sherlock tried to duck away. 

“I’m here for the murder, Lestrade, not for your perusal,” Sherlock retorted snappily.

“Did you get yourself a girlfriend or something? Do you even date? I’d chuck her, whoever she is, she’s obviously a maniac!” Lestrade continued to laugh. “She straight out bit you!”

Sherlock pushed Lestrade away and adjusted his coat, “Can we talk about the crime, not my neck?”

“Can’t we talk about both?” Lestrade asked with a grin as he jogged to keep up with Sherlock’s increased pace. “Seriously, what happened?”

“What do you think happened?” Sherlock sighed irritably, spinning to face Lestrade abruptly, just before the line of police tape. “I let someone suck on my neck, is that so surprising? So earth-shatteringly monumental that it dubs a critique and endless questioning?”

Lestrade spread his hands in mock surrender and then gestured towards the crime scene gently, lifting the tape, “Okay.”

Sherlock huffed, glared and ducked under smoothly, stalking passed a group of policemen that all spotted the marks littering Sherlock’s skin and muttered amongst themselves in shock. John watched Sherlock go and tried to reign in the beginnings of a hot and deep blush as he caught Lestrade’s eyes and shrugged as casually as he could, hoping he played the look of indifference off well enough to not raise suspicion.

“Do you know how he got them? Not everyday I see Sherlock walking around with a bunch of hickeys, and dark ones at that,” Lestrade commented, waiting for John to cross under the tape and walking beside him. “Did someone do them or did he have a little too much fun with a hoover? Giving himself hickeys, see, that’s something I can see Sherlock doing, makes more sense, because, you know, he’s weird like that, but…did you see? There were distinct teeth marks!”

“He’s not that weird,” John muttered in reply, folding his hands behind his back nonchalantly. 

They met Sherlock in the back of a white terrace house. The garden was a sweep of combed soil, lined with growing vegetables and flowers, and the body was shoved, half-concealed, near the back fence. Sherlock was leaning over it and the stretch of his neck made the marks there even more visible from the fold his scarf and flicked up collar, the sight made John flush with heat and teeth ache with sudden eagerness.

“You can see them a mile away,” Lestrade muttered from John’s side. “Really, who is he seeing? Do you know?”

John made some sort of vague motion with his head and hand, “You know what he’s like,” was his ambiguous response, unable to tear his eyes away from Sherlock’s neck, but still noticing when Lestrade slowly turned to look at him with a look of consideration.

Others were staring as well, as John knew they would. Donovan and Anderson were leering and muttering to one another from behind Sherlock and a whole crowd of others standing off to the other side of the garden were talking in hushed voices and stifled sniggers. Sherlock seemed to be ignoring everyone without much effort, his face set in concentration and hands flowing elegantly an inch or so above the body, trailing down sprawled and bloody legs. He looked down suddenly, crouching near the feet of the corpse, and flashed the nape of his neck, to which John clenched his jaw and fisted his hands to quell the overwhelming urge to march over and bite down in front of everyone.

John cleared his throat and adjusted his stance, unsure about his new and shocking addiction that seemed to have come on all of a sudden since the incident in the kitchen. The feel of Sherlock’s skin between his teeth and in his mouth was something he’d never thought he’d enjoy, but he did, obviously. John liked biting Sherlock, marking him for all to see and speculate; he liked the way the bruises looked and took pleasure in putting them there. The first time John had bitten Sherlock had been nothing but John venting out his annoyance on Sherlock without properly thinking about the odd situation he had been put in, he hadn’t really had an opinion on the matter, but after physically dragging Sherlock over their table to bite him several times more with increasing enthusiasm, John had known that everything had shifted, that something was definitely different.

Sherlock got up fluidly and motioned Lestrade over to talk and gesture at him, and John watched, eyes solely on the flex and strain of Sherlock’s long, bruised throat as he spoke. A few errant curls were pressed softly just behind Sherlock’s ear and John exhaled deeply through his nose, snapping out of his daze only when Sherlock looked at him and called his name.

Throughout a day and a half John pushed his nonsensical urges aside and disregarded the twitch of his hands and the need to bite whenever Sherlock leaned over something, but nearing the end of the case John felt the need reach boiling point and was hardly in control of himself when he dragged Sherlock into a nearby disabled toilet in the police station.

Sherlock stumbled inside with confusion and turned as John locked the door behind them and pushed Sherlock back into the wall roughly, “John?” Sherlock mumbled, wincing when John wrenched his head aside.

First John ran his tongue up Sherlock’s bruised pulse point senselessly, pressing the flat of his tongue down when Sherlock’s heart rate spiked and sucking a little, and only when Sherlock tensed then shivered did John move to the new spot behind his ear, nosing away the curls and angling Sherlock’s head with a tight grip on Sherlock’s chin.

John sucked at his hairline for only a short time, leaving the skin red, and then moved to capture Sherlock’s ear with his teeth. Sherlock jerked and let out a breathless laugh and John grinned, giddy and seemingly drunk on desire as he pulled at it and then let go, moving back to look up into Sherlock’s eyes with a swift, dizzying wave of mortification.

“Ow,” Sherlock breathed huskily, reaching up to rub the red part of his ear. 

John swallowed and licked his lips, stepping back, “Sorry…God…I…I don’t know what came over me…” he mumbled, blushing hotly with his heart thundering. “Shit…I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”

Sherlock gazed at John silently and then grabbed his arm when John turned to leave. John glanced up at Sherlock with a sigh and opened his mouth, denial automatically filling his throat, but he kept it back when Sherlock intentionally began unwinding his scarf, undoing the buttons on his coat, then his jacket, and lastly his shirt.

“What are you doing?” John asked, voice low and eyes locked onto the mark he’d left on Sherlock’s collarbone as Sherlock exposed his torso. 

“Bite me,” Sherlock insisted coolly.

John ran his eyes over the lean section of Sherlock’s heaving chest and tensed stomach and shook his head very faintly, “I…I don’t—Where?”

“Anywhere,” Sherlock replied, his eyes dark as he shifted his position against the wall. “Everywhere.”

John tried to step back and leave but stepped forward and stayed, his mouth pressing warmly to Sherlock’s breastbone. Sherlock was wiry and hard, skin stretched over sinew and bones, and John had to work to pinch and suck mouthfuls of Sherlock into his mouth. 

Sherlock’s skin was smooth and hairless and thrumming with energy, the strong and rapid thumping of his heart echoing through John’s skull as he crammed closer. A blush of obvious arousal bloomed before John’s eyes and he tracked it up Sherlock’s arched, marked, throat and along Sherlock’s high cheekbones with a sharp spark of satisfaction.

John’s mind clouded with longing in a blaze of tingles up his spine and he inhaled a rough, shaky breath, sliding his hands up to Sherlock’s shoulders with a scrape of his nails. He wanted to mark Sherlock so much and in so many different ways that it was almost overpowering in its intensity, John’s body aflame with feverous want. 

Steadily, John bruised and bit his way down Sherlock’s chest, going so far as ensnaring and suckling Sherlock’s left nipple until it was darkly flushed and pebbled beneath his tongue. Sherlock responded to it with a throaty groan and an arched back, and John grabbed handfuls of Sherlock’s naked hips to steady him as John pulled off to relocate at the expanding curve of Sherlock’s ribs, conquering it with a wet caress of his tongue.

The heady scent of Sherlock was invading the air around them as John bit down on Sherlock’s side and then mashed his mouth at Sherlock’s navel, nipping it sharply. Sherlock hissed above him and bucked, and John dug his fingers into Sherlock’s hip in a bruising grip. 

Only when John slid to his knees suddenly, mouth at Sherlock’s quickly bared pelvis when John’s fingers tugged the hem of Sherlock’s trousers down with force, did John hesitate with a dowse of realisation. Sherlock’s trapped erection had nudged John’s chin, hot and twitching, and John blinked at the naked skin in front of his nose as he detached his mouth wetly, leaving behind a flushed blotch outlined by the shape of his teeth. John looked up Sherlock’s body, breathing roughly, the heated scent from Sherlock’s arousal filling his nose, and Sherlock glanced down at him slowly, eyes glazed and hands gripping anything within reach in a white-knuckled grip. 

John jumped to his feet in a rush and their noses brushed, “Sorry,” John murmured vaguely, unsure of what he was supposedly apologising for exactly.

Sherlock swallowed loudly, tilted his head, lifted his chin, and touched their mouths together lightly, only once. John twitched in reaction with hooded eyes and exhaled roughly through his nostrils, tensing. Sherlock touched John’s cheek with his fingertips and bumped noses softly until John spread a hand up the column of Sherlock’s throat and kissed Sherlock faintly in response.

The kiss shot liquid desire straight to John’s groin and after taking a breath he kissed Sherlock again, then again, deepening it with a rough moan when Sherlock yielded eagerly into him. Grasping one of Sherlock’s shoulders, John impulsively reached his other hand down and cupped the straining line of Sherlock’s cock through his trousers grinding the heel of his palm into him. 

Sherlock chocked on a juddering groan, rutted erratically, and then grunted lowly with an open mouth. John breathed into him as he felt a pulse of wet heat bloom under his palm, then another, and another, the material of Sherlock’s trousers dampening. Sherlock moaned in humiliation, screwed his eyes shut and turned his head away.

“Sorry,” Sherlock breathed, and John laughed softly in response, biting down on Sherlock’s jaw unconsciously as he took his hand away and shuffled backwards with his own flush of embarrassment.

“Let’s…Um, let’s go,” John said after a moment, trying not to stare at the shaking, exposed torso of Sherlock while Sherlock panted and twitched in aftershock, face and neck red.

Sherlock nodded with a sigh and fumbled with his shirt until John stepped close and helped button it for him. Sherlock watched John’s fingers and then looked up at him. 

“Should I…” Sherlock started, voice a few octaves lower, before clearing his throat and continuing. “Do you want me to…?”

John frowned for a second and then shook his head in comprehension, “Oh…no, no, that’s fine. Uh, thanks…”

Sherlock nodded, his mouth a tense line, and looked away, tucking in his shirt and pulling closed both his jacket and coat. John picked up his discarded scarf and handed it over, then moved to unlock and slip out of the toilets with Sherlock close on his heel.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More quick escalation in this chapter! No messing about!
> 
> Things are only going to get better and more intimate in coming chapters I reckon

John didn’t see Sherlock again for four weeks and after sending what added up to twenty texts and fifteen voice mail messages, John, concerned and troubled, entered Sherlock’s bedroom to look for clues to his whereabouts only to find Sherlock bent over a suitcase on his bed that he was leisurely unpacking. 

“Ah, John,” Sherlock smiled. “Perfect timing, I need you to--”

“Where the bloody hell have you been?” John barked, glaring at Sherlock and throwing up his hands, pacing shortly back and forth between the bed and the door. “Do you have any idea how worried I was? At first I thought nothing of it, you do this, vanish into thin air for days, but four weeks? Four whole weeks, Sherlock? Where were you?”

Sherlock stared at John in what looked to be genuine confusion, “France.”

“France?” John spluttered.

“Yes. I told you--”

“No, no, you didn’t bloody tell me, Sherlock! I had no idea where on earth you were!” John shouted. “And why didn’t you return any of my texts? I left voice mails. I rang you multiple times during the day, between my working hours, even sometimes during them! I rang Lestrade, I even rang Mycroft for goodness sake!”

Sherlock looked away briefly, “And what did he say?”

“He told me not to worry; not where you were or what you were doing, but just not to worry, in that stupid, annoying, sickening, haughty, clipped, posh voice of his,” John fumed, glowering heatedly at Sherlock and striding over so angrily that Sherlock took a step back. “And all this time, all this time you were in France? Doing what? A case?”

“…Yes,” Sherlock said slowly. “I swear I told you.”

“Nope.” John said curtly. “You might have told the room, expecting me to be there, again, but I wasn’t, Sherlock! I had no clue where you were, for four weeks!”

“Hardly a great deal of time, John.”

John squinted at him in disbelief and let out a frustrated growl, clenching his hands in front of him as if holding back from gripping Sherlock, “Sometimes I just want to…to strangle you!”

Sherlock shuffled on the spot and opened his mouth to say, John didn’t know what, because John saw the healed arc of Sherlock’s neck and grabbed him, yanked him forwards and bit down on his throat with a low moan of aggravation. Sherlock inhaled sharply with a hitched exclamation and John bit down harder, shoving the suitcase off the bed with a sweep of his arm and pushing Sherlock down in its place, moistly releasing his neck in the process.

“Apologise to me,” John demanded a blushing Sherlock as he automatically touched his neck with wide eyes. “Right now. Apologise.”

John was breathing heavily and seething, his fists clenched at his sides and the muscle in his jaw jumping. Blood was pounding in his ears and he wanted nothing more than to mark Sherlock all over again, to own him and touch him and smell him. John had missed Sherlock, missed him so much he had ached, had pined. John’s teeth felt like they were throbbing, and he wanted nothing more than to sink them into Sherlock flesh again, and again, tasting and bruising and possessing.

Blinking rapidly, John uncurled his fingers with a blush of his own and turned suddenly, stalking to the bedroom doorway in shock.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered in a deep, pulsating rumble that shot straight to John’s groin.

John clutched the doorframe with shaking fingers and looked over his shoulder. Sherlock was still sprawled out over the bed, half-leaning up on his elbows, his chest heaving and neck wet and red from John’s mouth.

“Take off your shirt,” John heard himself order, voice low and stern and eager. 

Sherlock swallowed, slowly sat up, and began unbuttoning his shirt with coy and unsteady tugs. He stared at John as he did so, his pupils dilated and his mouth tensed. The marks John had left on Sherlock’s body hadn’t been as rough as the ones he’d left on his neck, so John was unsurprised at the unblemished pale skin that was exposed button by button. John could almost see the vibration of Sherlock’s fast beating heart and looked away for a moment, clenching his eyes shut.

John listened to the soft rumpling of fabric and backed up, shut Sherlock’s door, and turned around once the rumpling had ceased. Sherlock looked at him slightly bashful and then impatient, his head tilted in a way that exposed more of his neck. Sherlock’s shirt was still in his fingers but he folded it and dropped it into the suitcase on the floor.

“This is entirely unhealthy,” John told him huskily as he walked over, knowing he shouldn’t and that he was out of his mind. “Really, truly, unhealthy. For us both, I think…”

Sherlock nodded and lowered his gaze, but looked back up when John pushed Sherlock onto his back and leaned over to press his nose to the edge of Sherlock’s jaw. John inhaled silently but deeply, and stared at Sherlock’s half-covered ear for a few moments, trying to stop what he was thinking of doing and walk away, something he couldn’t seem to do no matter how hard he tried.

“I blame you completely,” John muttered, turning his head when Sherlock did. Sherlock locked eyes with him and then let out a sigh through his nose.

“Fine,” he replied quietly, and reached over to touch the corner of John’s mouth lightly, purposely.

John narrowed his eyes and then leaned away, watching Sherlock’s arm fall to his chest, “Turn over…”

Sherlock frowned, “Wh-what?”

“Turn around,” John said, twirling his finger to accentuate his meaning with a flush of his cheeks. “Roll onto your front.” 

Sherlock obeyed after a moment, leaning on his forearms and displaying his back. John stared at him with a gradual uncoiling of lust that clouded his mind and then pulled Sherlock’s arms out from under him, pressing him flat against the bed, before pushing up the short curls at Sherlock’s nape and biting down. Sherlock gasped with a full body jerk and John curled an arm around his waist, slanting his mouth to get a better mouthful.

The scent and taste that greeted John’s tongue was so pleasantly familiar that John groaned and tightened his grip eagerly, drunk on the first suction of skin into his mouth. For four weeks John had dreamed about what they had done in the disabled toilets, and had woken up hard each and every morning, his skin sweat-soaked and hypersensitive. It all came rushing back to him at that moment, and John felt a mixture of humiliation, want, and anxiety, that shot a thrilling burst of adrenaline through his bloodstream.

Sherlock was just as responsive and sensitive as the last time, as well as the times before that, and shivered and gasped, heart racing, as John gave in to his new and thrilling and unstoppable compulsion. What Sherlock had started was something John couldn’t see himself being able to stop, each press of his mouth was like the first and it filled his mind and heated his skin and drove him onwards, continually.

John sucked and marked the skin of Sherlock’s nape until Sherlock let out a ragged groan, and then drew back to inspect it, rubbing it dry with his hand. Sherlock was panting loudly beneath him, his hips twitching, and John smirked, high on arousal, and licked a wet path down Sherlock’s contorting spine, blowing on it to watch the rush of goose bumps that followed.

Sherlock’s skin quivered close by and John nosed at it, nipping and scratching just to watch it rise in light welts. Cheekily, and then wildly, John carved his name into the twitching muscle of Sherlock’s lower back with his nails and licked at it, biting down hard within the “O” and growling in pleasure at Sherlock’s continued writhing.

John bit between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, at his sides, and on his hips, adding more and more pressure with each one until he suddenly changed tack and kissed the crook of Sherlock’s neck, nuzzled at his hairline and pressed his crotch into Sherlock’s raised backside, rocking his growing erection into him. Sherlock stiffened in response and John kissed his cheek, bending further over him as Sherlock turned his head and allowed their mouths to connect sloppily.

As they kissed awkwardly, John reached down with both hands and began instinctively unbuckling Sherlock’s belt without any real thought, popping open the button of Sherlock’s trousers, and wriggling one hand in to cup the twitching shape of Sherlock’s length through his underwear. Sherlock hissed and clumsily returned another kiss, and John tipped his hips and thrust instinctively with a moan, pushing Sherlock across the bed in his haste. Sherlock scrambled at the covers with a shudder and a loud groan, his erection throbbing and hardening rapidly against John’s palm.

The realisation that he was touching another man’s privates, specifically his best friend’s, once again, came and went like a passing of a car, echoing inside his head as John adjusted his grip and ground his knuckles gently along Sherlock’s hardened length, making Sherlock whimper lowly.

John scraped his teeth along Sherlock’s ear and slowly slipped his fingers into the waistband of Sherlock’s underwear to touch heated, damp, naked skin, sliding his fingertips up the underside to circle the tip until Sherlock whined in the back of his throat abruptly and spilled over John’s fingers in hard pulses. 

“Sorry,” Sherlock slurred, squirming and rutting through his orgasm, his cheeks flushed dark. “M’sorry...”

John pulled his hand free, undid his jeans, and wrapped his slick fingers around himself mindlessly, kissing and sucking at Sherlock neck and shoulders as he gripped and stroked to quickly spend himself up Sherlock’s back in long streaks that dribbled onto the bed and splashed onto his own top.

Sherlock groaned in reaction and bucked, knocking his hips roughly into the edge of the mattress as John fell to Sherlock’s side with a grunt, dizzy and breathless from climax.

As before, the atmosphere shifted as the last tendrils of pleasure dissipated, and John glanced over at Sherlock to find him staring with hooded eyes, his back glistening wetly. John muttered gibberish inaudibly and got up, tucking himself away and leaving the room, coming back seconds later with a damp towel to clean his mess from Sherlock’s scratched and bruised skin.

Sherlock was silent throughout and then slowly stood up once it was done, and turned to face John, swaying on his feet and blushing, “I am sorry, John,” he mumbled, lethargic and giddy. 

John nodded and stepped forward to wipe a missed smear of his essence at Sherlock’s side with embarrassment, “I know…” he whispered.

When John looked up into Sherlock’s face, Sherlock pressed their foreheads together and gripped John’s arms nervously, “…Are we going to do this often then?”

“Um, this? I…I don’t know. I shouldn’t have—but I just really want to…to…” John stammered, abruptly engulfed in desire again and ensnaring Sherlock in his grasp in a sudden eager motion. “You taste really good.”

“Mm?” Sherlock purred, tilting his head to allow John to rub his mouth along Sherlock’s jaw.

“God, yes.” John moaned. “I want to fuck you!”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth John paled and stared at Sherlock with wide eyes. Sherlock was frozen with shock, his lips parted and gaze unfocused. John stuttered and tried to step back but Sherlock grabbed him and held him in place.

“You want to…?” Sherlock breathed. “You…”

“I…no, no, I didn’t mean it like that. I meant I wanted to--”

“I’d let you,” Sherlock said gutturally, pupils so hugely dilated that his eyes looked almost completely black.

John flinched physically as his cock twitched sorely in interest, “You… would--?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Jesus…” John said croakily, licking his lips and moving to kiss Sherlock again only to pause and jump back. “No! N-no…we shouldn’t do that. I’m not gay! I’m not…I’m…I…”

Sherlock blinked slowly at him but didn’t voice his obvious opinion on the matter, and glanced down at his undone trousers, the wet patch on his underwear dark and clinging to the contour of his softening penis. John looked away and swallowed thickly.

“I don’t know what’s going on with me—with us, but I don’t think we should do that; that you shouldn’t let me do that or…anything else to you anymore,” John mumbled. “I mean, have you even--?”

“No,” Sherlock answered, mouth inches from John’s. 

John turned his head spontaneously to rub their lips together and bit at Sherlock’s lower lip with an automatic shift forwards, tugging him into a slow kiss that John controlled and deepened. Sherlock moaned and clung to him and John curled his arms around Sherlock’s slim middle, pressing them close together and possessing Sherlock with his hands and mouth.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear. John's corrupted Sherlock.
> 
> Sorry about the wait. I realised that I left this one for a bit.
> 
> Let me know if you lovelies want more of it!

The following morning John went about things as usual, pushing the events of the night before to the back of his mind as he made himself some breakfast and brewed two cups of tea. It seemed almost like routine, ignoring what had happened before, they had done it after the incident at the kitchen table, and they hadn’t spoken about the disabled toilets situation because Sherlock had up and left for France, apparently. Therefore John felt it only natural to do the same about the other nights escapades, no matter how hard he had woken up that morning, or how eager he was to bite the back of Sherlock’s neck again whilst humping the living daylights out of him.

John coughed and glanced around, adjusting himself in his underwear with a flush of embarrassment and mortification. What was wrong with him? With them? What had happened to change how John saw Sherlock so dramatically? John thought back to the first bite and moaned quietly in the back of his throat at the memory. Why did it feel so good, or, better yet, why did Sherlock taste so good?

John had never been that into marking during intercourse or foreplay before, he had done it a handful of times, sure, but he had never yearned for it, or anticipated the reaction he would get if he were to bite a little harder for a little bit longer. Shaking himself from his thoughts John added the milk to his and sugar to Sherlock’s, and wandered over to the kitchen table with them. 

When John had ushered Sherlock to bed the other night, after their very deep, very long, and very arousing kiss, John had stumbled to his own room smelling of sex and Sherlock and had literally basked in it before he reprimanded himself. He had then rested there, in the dark, and panicked about the state of their friendship, wondering what to do about his new craving, new feelings, and trying to blame it all on Sherlock and his stupidly glorious experiment. John still blamed him, still glared over at Sherlock’s chair as if he would suddenly materialise there, and hoped to God that whatever the thing between them was, would just disappear.

John moved to his chair after finishing his breakfast and reached for the paper just as Sherlock emerged from his bedroom, “Morning.”

“Hm,” Sherlock grunted, picking up the cold tea with a look of annoyance and moving to brew another, bending his head forwards to ruffle his hair.

John zeroed in on the bite mark at his nape and shuddered, turning away sharply and hiding behind the newspaper, sticking his face so close to one page that the words were blurred and the scent of the paper invaded his nose strongly. 

“Anything?” Sherlock asked.

“Hm? Sorry, what?”

Sherlock suddenly leaned over John’s shoulder and prodded the newspaper with one finger, “The paper. Anything interesting? Any gruesome murders? Mysterious deaths? Anything been stolen?” 

John looked at the stretched length of Sherlock’s throat with a dry mouth and watched as Sherlock skimmed the pages with a pout and a frown. Sherlock was so close that John could smell him and feel the heat from his body, radiating over John’s shoulder.

Sherlock huffed and popped a biscuit in his mouth, “Nothing. How miserable. How…frustrating. Why is there never anything decent going on in London these days? I tell you…” he trailed off at catching John’s gaze and chewed on his biscuit slowly, squinting at John and then tilting his head with interest, eyes suddenly dark.

“Kettle’s boiled,” John told him, breathing a sigh of relief when Sherlock took one more look at him and walked away.

Using the paper to hide with again John listened to Sherlock stirring sugar into his tea and then wandering over to his own chair. Even without looking John knew that Sherlock was staring at him, and John crossed his legs, rustling the paper as he turned the page.

Time passed sluggishly, stretching out between them as John pretended to read and Sherlock gazed at him. John could feel heat at the back of his neck attributed to being looked at by the one person John couldn’t seem to stop thinking about. He wanted to do things to Sherlock, even at that moment, sitting in their living room John wanted to do things. He had thoroughly enjoyed pinning Sherlock beneath him, pushing up against him, and sinking his teeth into the flexing muscle of Sherlock’s back, and a big part of him wanted to do it again, more than once. John recalled the look and feel of Sherlock as he climaxed, and re-crossed his legs, lowering the paper somewhat, eyes fixed on one corner of text, unseeing.

For a moment he deliberated going to his therapist and asking for help, John didn’t think any of his thoughts were healthy, not for a heterosexual man at any rate, and John was still heterosexual, he was, but he also seemed to dream about bending Sherlock over the sofa and clawing a path up his shuddering back. He wasn’t sure he could face his therapist, wasn’t sure he could face anyone and tell them about what had happened, what had continued to happen, he could almost vividly picture Greg’s face if he ever blurted it out. 

A maniac, that’s what Greg had called the person who had marked Sherlock’s neck; that’s what he had called John. Was he a maniac? He certainly felt like one at that moment, longing to close the distance between Sherlock and him to take Sherlock’s bottom lip between his teeth. The maniac and the freak, one of the same.

John fidgeted and glanced over to see that Sherlock was still staring at him, fingers poised under his chin and mouth quirking upwards at the sides, “What?” John asked gruffly, adjusting his position in his chair once more and lifting the newspaper he was trying to read higher to block Sherlock from his view.

Sherlock chuckled in response and then spoke, voice low and reverberating, “Shall we do it tonight?”

“Do what?” John asked annoyed at how quickly his body reacted to Sherlock’s obvious teasing.

“Have sex.”

The newspaper rustled loudly and then ripped in John’s suddenly fisted hands, and John blinked, watching it crumple limply to his lap, leaving two handfuls of torn paper between John’s fingers. Sherlock was grinning at him, smug and amused, fingers moving to rest against his mouth as he quirked an eyebrow in John’s direction, awaiting an answer with the casual air of nonchalance, as though it was the type of question he always asked. John swallowed, took a deep breath, then another, and leaned back with a half-hearted glare.

“I…I thought we discussed--” John started, licking his lips and then freezing when Sherlock leaned forwards in his own chair.

“Nope,” Sherlock replied, popping the “P” and turning his head in a way to expose the marks John had left. “We didn’t discuss anything. You brought it up—”

“I-I didn’t mean to say what I did!”

“—and I said I was game,” Sherlock continued, smirking at John’s resulting splutter, “then we kissed and went to bed. Hardly a proper discussion.”

John cleared his throat and willed away his blush, “I said no! I…I didn’t mean to say that—I mean, I wasn’t…thinking and it…it just sort of…slipped out…and I…I don’t want that…not at all. No. Never. Not…not once have I…I thought about doing…doing that. It was just a heat of the moment sort of thing, completely unintentional and should be completely and utterly disregarded. I still don’t know how to handle what we, what I…I—what are you doing?”

John pressed back in his chair as Sherlock pushed up out of his and walked the few steps towards him, closing the distance between them, “I want to.”

“Wh-what?”

“Have sex,” Sherlock clarified, leaning into John’s personal space, arms bracing on the chair, “with you.”

“Well I…I don’t want to have…to…do that, with you,” John stammered, scrambling in panic and embarrassment when Sherlock removed the newspaper from his knees only to slide onto John’s lap in its place. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock squirmed a moment and then grabbed for John’s right hand, smoothing it down his neck and exhaling with a tremble when John dug his fingers into Sherlock’s shoulder with a burst of arousal, focus suddenly on the stretch of Sherlock’s throat as he swallowed. John could feel the descending curtain of desire as it fluttered to encompass his brain and he tensed, trying to shake it off and compose himself, looking away for a few seconds. 

“Sherlock--”

“Or you could just ejaculate up my back again,” Sherlock breathed, smirking with an eager shift of his eyebrows. “I liked that.” 

John choked on something between a laugh and a groan and looked up at Sherlock with wide eyes, “Don’t…don’t ever say that word again!”

Sherlock inhaled significantly and John slapped a hand over his mouth before he could utter the word, making Sherlock thunder with laughter between his fingers. John shook his head with frustration but smiled and pushed Sherlock’s shoulder with his other hand. 

“What’s gotten in to you? You go away to France for four bloody weeks and suddenly you’re a deviant?” John joked, inhaling sharply when Sherlock angled his hips in such a way that their groins met. “Ah—Sherlock! We…I…we need to talk about…about this…this unhealthy…unhealthy…Oh God…”

John dropped his hands to Sherlock’s rolling hips and groaned, increasing his grip when Sherlock leaned forward to blatantly offer his neck to John’s teeth. John clenched his jaw and tried to resist but ultimately sucked in a mouthful of Sherlock’s skin under his jaw, biting down until Sherlock gasped and then bucking up against him madly.

“Mm—wait! Wait, no…I…no,” John panted after he’d detached himself from Sherlock, trying to ignore the pleasurable taste of him on his tongue. “This is…this is weird…more than weird. Christ…how did this even start?”

“Everything or just this, right now?” Sherlock murmured, eyes glazed and cheeks flushed as he glanced down at John and frantically began undoing the buttons of his shirt.

“What are you doing?” John asked surprised at how deep his voice was. “Stop. Stop, this should all…stop…”

“I’m horny,” Sherlock abruptly moaned, rendering John speechless, still unbuttoning his shirt. “Come on, please. You can…blame me again.”

“Huh?”

“Last night, you said you blamed me completely, so blame me again and bite me, touch me and--” Sherlock cut himself short and shot to his feet so quick that John fell forwards in shock, almost falling out of his chair. “We have a client!”

John blinked, panting and practically throbbing with excitement, mind a thick fog, “We have a what now?”

“A client, John!” Sherlock exclaimed in annoyance, squinting out of the window and then huffing in displeasure, doing back up his shirt quickly and sitting down. “Looks dull though.”

“Hold on, can we…can we start over?” John mumbled, feeling a twinge of disappointment as Sherlock’s skin was covered back up. “We were just…and then you just said…and now we…?”

“Boys! You have a client!” Mrs Hudson called as she opened the door of their flat and peeked in with a smile, mouthing the words “She’s in a bit of a state,” and then showing a sobbing woman in.

John sat up straighter at her appearance and moved to get up but paused when Sherlock cleared his throat pointedly, glancing subtly to John’s crotch before plastering a fake smile onto his face and gesturing the woman down on the sofa. She sat with a gentle weep, wiping her face on a soft, white handkerchief, and then looked up with the bluest eyes John had ever seen.

“Take your time,” John assured her with a smile, leaning on his knees to hide his obvious aroused state.

“Rather you didn’t,” Sherlock muttered, drumming his fingers on his chin and then tilting his head, regarding her, the mark John had left freshly red and glistening wet.

John blanched and then blushed, trying to will himself to concentrate as the woman finally pulled herself together enough to talk. As she spoke John watched her mouth, running his eyes along the plump curve of her bottom lip with a tingle of interest, noticing the dip in her top lip and stifling a smirk. Her mouth looked like Sherlock’s, though Sherlock’s top lip had more of a dip, the curves of it both sharp and soft in equal measure. John felt his dick twitch and was suddenly reminded that he was half off his head with arousal.

Clearing his throat, John shifted position and crossed his legs slowly, hiding the wince as the woman blew her nose. John shot Sherlock a brief look and gripped his armrests, looking back to find Sherlock staring at him with a heated gaze, pupils dilated and lips parted. Sherlock grinned at him but looked away when the woman dabbed at her eyes and implored Sherlock to help her.

Apparently, she hadn’t heard back from her fiancé for over a month, or that was all that John managed to make out as he stared, unabashedly, at Sherlock’s moving mouth. Sherlock paused a moment and bit down on his bottom lip in thought, and John had to grind his teeth to stop from moaning, glaring when he realised Sherlock had done it on purpose.

“All right,” Sherlock said at last with a sigh, flashing the woman a charming grin. “I’ll take the case. I’ll need to see your apartment, right now if that’s possible?”

“Oh, of course! Thank you so much, Mr Holmes! You have no idea how much this means to me, that you’re willing to--”

“Yes, well,” Sherlock interrupted, standing and smoothing out his trousers, catching John’s gaze as he did so, one hand refolding his collar to expose a dark love bite that lead down to his shoulder. “No time to waste. John? Come along.”

John scowled at him and pushed up onto his feet quickly, trying to act as nonchalant as possible as he shoved his hands into his pockets to try and not make the bulge in his trousers as noticeable.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have wrote a lot more than I normally do...not sure.
> 
> I got sort of carried away! And I think...I think this is a teaser chapter...maybe? Sort of? I don't know.
> 
> Sorry about the wait again. Let me know if you want more!

John wandered passed Sherlock seated with his laptop, again, and eyed the sweep of his neck and the curve of his ear with eager intent. It had been little over five weeks since the talk of sex, and Sherlock and he had not spoken about it or touched sexually again, too wrapped up in the quite interesting disappearance case as it so happened, and then in the monotonous roll of life that followed afterwards, complete with one of Sherlock’s black moods. John wondered if Sherlock had forgotten how wanton and eager he had been writhing on John’s lap, and bit down on his lip with a frown, glancing over his shoulder as he discreetly shifted himself in his jeans. Sherlock was seemingly focused on the screen before him, fingers flying over the keys, eyebrows bunched and eyes narrowed, and the sight only served to add to John’s growing arousal.

“Bloody hell,” John mumbled under his breath with a wince. 

Making his way back passed Sherlock once more; John lingered, turned to leave, and then turned back again, indecisive. He still believed that whatever it was that they were caught up in was entirely unhealthy for them both, but he couldn’t for the life of him forget it and push it aside and walk away. He ached to bite and mark and press and scratch at Sherlock, he wanted nothing more than to own him and make him arch and moan and cry out. John paled at his thoughts and looked down at the soft curls against the back of Sherlock’s neck, leaning to press his mouth there before he could think to stop himself; everything seemed to happen on autopilot, and he tensed and shivered, watching as if from afar, as he inhaled deeply and eagerly, and nipped at Sherlock’s skin.

“I’m busy,” Sherlock said curtly.

John jerked back, snapped out of his trance by the harsh tone, “Right. Sorry…” he stuttered. “I didn’t mean to—I don’t know what I was thinking. Sorry. Forget I did anything.”

“We can have sexual relations later,” Sherlock sighed, not moving from his place bent over his laptop. 

“Wh-what?” John choked once his brain had comprehended what Sherlock had said. “No…no, that’s…no.”

Sherlock tapped loudly with a flourish and then turned around to look at John with a small smile, “No?”

“No.” John nodded, gulping uncertainly and walking idly to his chair, only to stop and then check the time, before making his way to his coat. “I think I’ll go for a walk…get some fresh air.”

“Fine,” Sherlock replied, focus back on his laptop. “Perhaps I’ll go away for another four weeks; get you mad at me again, so we can then rut together on my bed whilst you mark me and spill yourself up my back.”

John paused in the middle of slipping on his shoes and glared over at Sherlock, whom didn’t return the look but smirked and pushed his fingers through his hair, uncovering his neck. John stared at it and grit his teeth, his body heating with longing and his length thickening quickly, pushing the crotch of his jeans out obscenely. He imagined himself grunting into Sherlock as he bit down again and again, harder and harder, branding him until Sherlock groaned and arched. John licked his lips and screwed his eyes shut briefly. 

“You know, you’re all cocky and high-and-mighty now, with the teasing and the casual mentioning of…of…”

“Sex,” Sherlock finished for him.

John narrowed his eyes and pointed a finger at him, “But after, you’re just as nervous and…and…confused and shy and messed up as I am!” he exclaimed, striding to the centre of the room, still pointing at him. “You, you’re to blame for all of this! You started this, Sherlock!”

“And you’ve continued it,” Sherlock replied lowly, suddenly not interested in what he had been before as he got to his feet and walked steadily over to John. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m not busy.”

“Don’t,” John rumbled huskily, blushing so hard his ears burned.

Sherlock tilted his head coyly with hooded, dark eyes, “I’ve been practicing, you know. I know you’ve been yearning for it, John, unable to get my words out of your head. These past several weeks I’ve been practicing, so you can take me just like you want to.”

“Practicing?” John repeated, confused and unable to think lucidly with Sherlock moving close.

Sherlock gave him suggestive look but then meekly flitted his gaze around the room, slowing to a stop inches away from John’s still pointing finger, “Have you not noticed how much of your lubrication has been used?” he questioned as casually as if he were asking John about the state of the traffic that morning. “You’ve been using it more often, understandably, but still, you’ve not used half as much as it shows you have…am I right?”

John blinked sluggishly, “You…you’ve been using my lube?”

“My room is nearest,” Sherlock announced, looking straight at John as he turned and strolled nonchalantly away, leaving his door open and glancing over his shoulder just as he disappeared from sight.

John stared after him silently. A moment passed, and then another, and John dropped his hand, shrugged out of his coat, kicked off his shoes, and trailed after him. Sherlock was waiting reservedly next to the bed, biting his thumbnail in apprehension, until he saw John and straightened his body out; he had undone the first few buttons of his shirt and was holding a condom wrapper in one hand, fingering the edge of it nervously.

“We shouldn’t,” John husked, erection throbbing painfully.

“Why not?”

“Because…we…we’re not like that,” John replied, even after everything they’d done, even as he closed Sherlock’s bedroom door behind him with a determined and decisive click.

Sherlock swallowed and John gazed hungrily at the way his Adam’s apple shifted, “I think we are.” 

John looked at the bed and caught sight of the bottle of lube at Sherlock’s bedside with a curl of his mouth, “That’s not mine.”

“No,” Sherlock nodded. “I bought my own after a while, thought it was prudent and rational to do so. I actually bought a few; my drawer is littered with different types. I tested which ones were the most…efficient for--”

“Strip,” John growled, his voice almost unrecognisable.

Sherlock took a shaky breath with wide eyes and nodded again, throwing the condom wrapper on the bed and undoing the rest of his shirt, fumbling only when he forgot to undo the cuffs. He blushed rapidly and sighed, tugging and struggling until he got them open and dropped the shirt to a heap on the floor clumsily. When he went to pick it back up, John stepped forward and shook his head.

“Leave it.” John demanded, gesturing impatiently for Sherlock to continue taking off his clothes. “I’m the one that ends up doing the ironing anyway.”

“Mrs Hudson does it sometimes,” Sherlock muttered immaturely under his breath, unbuckling his belt with a jingle of metal, and then yanking it out of the hoops of his trousers in one swift motion. Sherlock then looked at it for a breath, as if planning something, before he dropped it to the floor with his shirt with a thud.

“Don’t talk about Mrs Hudson, not now,” John protested, feeling suddenly smug as he continued. “And I saw the way you looked at your belt—your riding crop would be better suited for what you were thinking, wouldn’t you say?”

Sherlock sniffed snootily, “You don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I’m pretty sure I got the gist,” John mumbled, watching with a flare of desire as Sherlock’s long fingers worked at the button and zipper of his trousers. One side of John shouted for it to be stopped, for him to put an end to it, once and for all, but it was quiet and only got quieter when Sherlock pushed the loosened trousers down his pale, muscled thighs, something that prompted the other side of John to demand that he, himself, start getting undressed as well.

John trembled and then walked suddenly forward, closing the gap between them and standing almost toe-to-toe with Sherlock, who tensed, looked up at him with a mixture of trepidation and immense arousal, and then dropped his trousers to his ankles, kicking them aside after almost tripping himself up with them. John smirked at him softly and swallowed his own spike of apprehension to tug his jumper off and unbutton the shirt beneath it, watching Sherlock’s eyes flit to each inch of uncovered skin with hot attention.

“…Should we…talk about this?” John asked with his shirt halfway undone and slipping off his shoulders. “I mean…what is this?”

Sherlock glanced up at his face slowly, looking as if it took immense effort to do so, and sighed, “Do you really want to…talk?” he whispered, tone slick and deep and alluring. 

“We should,” John replied while he shook his head and tipped bodily forwards, mouth dropping to Sherlock’s shoulder irrepressibly. Instead of biting down, John pressed a hot and moist kiss to Sherlock’s skin, inhaling the addicting scent of him and unbuttoning the rest of his own shirt in order to push his bared chest up against Sherlock’s body with a low groan, relocating his mouth to Sherlock’s cheek. 

After a brief stretch of stillness, where both of them seemingly relished in the touch of skin on skin, John stroked his hands up Sherlock’s arms and around to his back, scratching flirtatiously between the bumps of his spine. Sherlock sighed in response and arched his head back and aside, presenting his neck to John, his fingers brushing John’s waist as he undid John’s jeans with slow but shaking jerks.

“This will change everything,” John muttered, turning his head and nosing his way under Sherlock raised chin and jaw.

“Not everything,” Sherlock countered softly, pushing John’s jeans down and then gripping his waist when John bit at him sharply and knocked their pelvises together.

John clawed down to shyly touch Sherlock’s backside and then grabbed him suddenly with more confidence when Sherlock groaned throatily and bucked against him. Sherlock was hard and twitching in his dark underwear, and John thrust against him with a shudder of his hips, grinding their erections together to elicit more noises from him, slanting his mouth along to the crook of Sherlock’s neck to bite down.

Once again John felt almost inebriated on the taste, smell, and feel of him, and he grunted with almost devastating pleasure, digging his fingers into Sherlock’s lush backside and pulling him closer. He was nearly overcome with the need to do more, practically vibrating with yearning, but John quickly stepped back, putting Sherlock at arms length, and closed his eyes, composing himself a little better. The low whine that escaped Sherlock’s throat at the loss of contact made John’s blood rush even hotter.

“Wait,” John gasped, tightening his hold on Sherlock when he tried to move in close again. “Wait…we…we need to…”

Sherlock’s hands were fumbling with the waistband of his underwear when John glanced over at him, and he stared at the damp spot of fabric clinging to the head of Sherlock’s hidden penis before he could stop himself. He scrabbled to stop Sherlock, wrenching his hands away, which snapped the elastic waistband against Sherlock’s flushed skin in the process.

“Stop…stop a second…” John breathed, shaking with suppressed desire. “We’ve never done this sort of thing before, neither one of us.”

“You have,” Sherlock rumbled, slurring his words faintly in his aroused state. 

“What? No. No, I haven’t, this is the first time--”

Sherlock blew his fringe from his face in annoyance, “With a man, yes, but you’ve done it with a woman before, many times before, in fact. You know what needs to happen, it’s basically the same principle—touch me, bite me…God just do something!”

John shook his head, licking his lips, “No…we need to…figure this out…”

“What’s to figure out?” Sherlock growled, suddenly breaking free of John’s grasp and crowding towards him to initiate a wanton and deep kiss that John couldn’t help but respond to. “I’m not some blushing virgin--”

“You… kind of are,” John mumbled against his mouth, frowning gently.

Sherlock leaned back to look at John properly, “Well…I don’t want to be,” he whispered gutturally, and slowly pushed down his underwear with a blooming flush up his chest, wincing with a hitch of his breath when he finally freed his erection.

John watched as Sherlock stepped closer still, tipping his hips to trail the wet tip up John’s navel, “Sherlock…”

“John,” he replied, taking John’s hands to the naked curve of his lower back and then reaching for the lube with shaky hands, coating the fingers of his right hand and urging John’s mouth back down to his throat with his left. 

“…Wait…Sherlock…” John tried once more until his mind was clouded by sharp enthusiasm to bite and claim, and he sucked a large patch of skin into his mouth eagerly, grinding his teeth to hear Sherlock gasp.

Sherlock’s right arm moved back and he arched up on his tiptoes with a brief gush of breath, almost dislodging John from one of his favourite places on Sherlock’s neck. John knew what Sherlock was doing, knew with a flood of sharp, intoxicating tingles that exploded from the centre of his chest and dropped, almost stinging, to dribble and caress down his stomach and across his crotch to gather in his straining manhood. With a low and rumbling sound in the back of his throat, John smoothed one hand around to trace the shifting flex of Sherlock’s arm, hand, and lean digits. 

Their fingers intermingled, rubbed and slipped together, slickly coated, and John let Sherlock’s neck go with a loud smacking to move and breath heavily against Sherlock parted lips, biting at the plump roundness of the bottom lip keenly as he stroked and teased between Sherlock’s tensing buttocks with experienced presses.

“You…you don’t have to,” Sherlock panted, voice barely there at all as he burbled on a whimper and grabbed John’s arms with one slippery hand, leaving John room to push in and stroke more and more with trembling excitement. 

John kissed him in reply, messy and quick, and dextrously angled his fingers, curling an arm firmly around Sherlock’s twisting and shaking waist when Sherlock collapsed against him slightly with a moan. John paused, but only for a moment, breathing heavy and swallowing thickly, and moved his head back to look into Sherlock’s face as he purposely stroked and angled a finger; and Sherlock looked at him with fluttering eyelids and flushed cheeks, and pushed back into it with a shaky breath.

“…Maybe we should be on the bed for this,” John muttered gruffly, pulling his hand away with a small, lingering grin at Sherlock’s sudden clenched jaw. Amazed he could even still think clearly and coherently.

“Fine.”

When Sherlock didn’t move away John patted him on the behind and then instinctively nipped his chin, “Go on then—Better put a pillow under your…your hips…”

Sherlock arched his eyebrow but turned and climbed onto the bed, scooting to the middle and grabbing a pillow with a look of anticipation and inexperience that made John dizzy. John picked up the condom wrapper and slowly kneeled onto the bed, sliding towards Sherlock with a wave of nervousness at Sherlock’s naked and aroused body, staring at the way his penis bobbed rigid from his body lewdly, unused to seeing a male body with as much carnal intent as he always had towards the soft and luxurious curves of a woman. 

It was true that John had done with women what he was about to do with Sherlock, but that didn’t really make him any less uneasy or self-conscious, and he cleared his throat timidly, flicking at the wrapper with his fingernails and looking anywhere but at Sherlock’s figure. It didn’t make it better that they were doing it with the curtains open, in the early afternoon, and that the sunlight from Sherlock’s window outlined his physique with pale strokes that exposed the contours of Sherlock’s muscles and complimented the soft flush that was gradually covering his torso and thighs.

“John?”

“Yeah?” He replied quietly, glancing back and then suddenly frowning. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock had turned on his front, the pillow cushioning his hips and pushed into his crotch. He squinted in confusion at John and leaned up, half turning back around, and then fully turning when John motioned for him to do so with a swirl of his hand.

“I…well, I’ve already had you on your front before, so…” John joked awkwardly, laughing and then smirking broadly when Sherlock’s mouth curled wide and he snorted, rearranging the pillow and waving John over. “By the way…is the lube…flavoured?”

“Bubble gum,” Sherlock nodded with a glint in his eyes, reaching for John’s arm and tugging him closer. “I have a candy floss flavoured one in my drawer if you’d prefer?”

John rolled his eyes and hovered over Sherlock, taking a moment to just look down at him before the urge to bite him became to overpowering to ignore and he lunged down to suck the skin near Sherlock’s left nipple into his mouth. Sherlock reacted instantly, arching and moaning softly, and John put the wrapper down to wrap both arms around him, pulling him off the bed a few inches as he bit and sucked his way down Sherlock’s heaving chest and stomach, overcome with possessiveness that didn’t stop until he was biting down into Sherlock’s left inner thigh.

Sherlock cursed husky and loud in another language, and it took a moment for John to comprehend it and lift his head with a frown, panting slightly, “Did you just—?”

“What?” Sherlock whispered in between breaths, blinking sluggishly and stretching his arms above his head to push away the other pillow to lie flat with his hips raised. 

Shaking his head, John gazed down at the dark mark he’d left on Sherlock’s quivering thigh, and then dropped his face under Sherlock’s chin in awkwardness when he noticed Sherlock’s spread legs. Sherlock nudged him after a moment, and then poked him in the eye with the bottle of lube meaningfully, smoothing his other hand down John’s back. 

“Ow,” John huffed, taking it and squirting some on Sherlock’s cheek in retaliation, giggling when Sherlock gave him an unimpressed expression in response and sat up to snatch the bottle back and squirt John on the mouth. “Oi!—Actually, it doesn’t taste half bad…”

“Good,” Sherlock replied smugly with a suggestive twitch of his eyebrow before he took John’s hand and squirted lube all over his fingers, guiding them down between his legs slowly with a hot blush.

John knew he kept stalling, knew he kept fighting to compose himself and pull back from the fog of arousal, but he had reasoned with himself that he had to, that he needed to be somewhat aware so he didn’t hurt Sherlock in some way in the heat of passion and overwhelming pleasure that clutched and grasped and strangled him. 

John leaned over Sherlock reticently and slipped his hand back to where he’d been eagerly touching before he’d told Sherlock to go on the bed, and Sherlock shuddered in response, his mouth slack and eyes shuttering. John leaned down and bit at his neck, losing himself gradually and then groaning when Sherlock’s hips twitched. He stroked and pressed and skilfully touched as he marked whatever patch of Sherlock’s skin that he could, stopping only to kiss him deeply and push one finger, then another and then another, into Sherlock with a slick indecent sound that filled the room alongside Sherlock gasps.

Sherlock arched tautly and strongly off the bed with loud cry, almost head-butting John in the process, when John stroked his prostate and John grinned leisurely, pushing and holding him down to touch him there again and again until Sherlock couldn’t take a breath, his stomach glistening with his liquid desire as it swelled and dribbled from the flushed head of his twitching penis.

“Hn! D-don’t! Don’t…John…” Sherlock grunted, writhing and struggling limply as his eyes rolled back and he arched his neck tensely, gasping and clawing John’s working arm and hand before he bucked, rutted roughly and spilled hotly up his own stomach with a low and extremely loud groan. 

John gripped his hair, bit down on his throat and slowly pulled his fingers out when the last pulse of ejaculate spurted over Sherlock’s shaking side. He fumbled to hook down his own underwear and, just like before, John stroked himself to completion with a deep grunt, covering Sherlock’s juddering stomach with his own climax. 

After, John slumped over Sherlock, kissed his mouth, cheek and sweaty temple, and tucked himself away. Sherlock slurred something and swatted his shoulder; unable to open his eyes without them rolling back, and John kissed him again and moved away when he knew he could walk properly, finding tissues to wipe Sherlock down with, cleaning him with a blush and a lethargic swipe of his hands. Unable to think clearly, John then fell down beside Sherlock and waited for the dizziness to pass, breathing against Sherlock’s bare shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback fuels me!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry for the wait!
> 
> Here is the next chapter. It's smut.

“You did that on purpose,” Sherlock murmured some time later, twitching, and still quite hypersensitive when John nudged his chin into Sherlock’s arm and softly bit down on reflex, still half asleep. 

“What time is it?” John mumbled several seconds later, moving up on his elbows to rub his face and stretch with a grunt, squinting as he looked around the room and rolled onto his side away from Sherlock. “God…why is your bed so comfortable? Has it always been this comfortable?”

Sherlock’s hand slipped up John’s naked back clumsily and John moaned in pleasure at the touch before his eyes widened and he turned back around to stare down at the languid spread of Sherlock’s nude body, mechanically checking for injury with a blush. Sherlock peeked up at him hazily and then turned his head away with a huff of annoyance, tugging at John’s neck to bring him down and to push him into Sherlock’s steady pulse, which swiftly picked up at having John pressed to his side.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock told him, voice deep and husky, and his fingers suddenly in John’s hair. “I told you…I’ve practiced…stop…being an idiot.”

John inhaled the intoxicating scent of him and nosed at Sherlock’s neck slowly, “…I still have my socks and pants on,” he whispered at random, giggling when Sherlock laughed. “Christ…what…what are we doing? What have we done?”

“Don’t do this,” Sherlock complained, not letting John up when he went to pull away to look at Sherlock properly. “Don’t.”

“But…but Sherlock, we need to—”

“No we don’t,” Sherlock interjected curtly, slipping his other arm around John’s waist tightly. “I don’t see a problem with this.”

John frowned gently but shifted into the pull of Sherlock’s arm, barely holding back a flinch and a shiver when their naked chests pressed together. Sherlock was still a little coated in lube and John swallowed thickly when the slick slide of his skin smeared up along him as Sherlock bent his leg up with a breath and fidgeted to bring John a little closer; the movement caused a stir at John’s crotch and Sherlock huffed with amusement.

“Shut up,” John muttered, finally pulling his head up to look down at Sherlock whom had his eyes closed. “You don’t see a problem with this…at all?”

“Nope,” Sherlock replied with a small sigh. “You know, you should be happy.”

“Happy?”

“This way you get to be with me and do cases, and also get your regular dose of sex on the side,” Sherlock told him, frowning abruptly and then peeking up at John. “Not overly regular, mind you. Work comes first—”

“I thought that was you?” John said cheekily. “Coming first, I mean.”

Sherlock flushed suddenly and beautifully, and glared up at John with a slight pout, “Y-you made me! I told you to stop, I told you not to, but you kept on and I…and I’ve not done anything sexual for years; not been touched in this way for so long that of course it would—”

John covered Sherlock’s mouth with one of his hands to cut him off and grinned, “I was only joking,” he chuckled, lifting his hand when Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and his mouth pursed tightly. “…Sorry. I know you couldn’t help it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but only flushed harder, the corners of his mouth twitching downwards, “It didn’t take long for you either, you know…”

“Touché,” John replied, dipping down to kiss Sherlock unconsciously and then quickly pulling back with his own blush. “So…what…what are we then? Friends? L-lovers? Both? None?—And what am I? I mean, obviously I’m not straight…I can’t be, right? Not after…after everything that’s happened. But…I’m not exactly gay either, am I? I don’t want to do this sort of stuff with Greg or anyone else for example...just thinking about that makes me uneasy and just…no.”

“Hm,” Sherlock hummed, tilting his head and then reaching down to snap the waistband of John’s underwear. “Take your pants off.”

“In fact, thinking about doing half of what I’ve done with you with another bloke just makes me feel—wait, what?” John asked with frown, having just registered what Sherlock had said. “Take my—? Why?”

Sherlock tipped his pelvis and meaningfully pushed his growing erection into John’s hip and snapped at his waistband again with eager fingers, “The kiss made me erect, not your talk of whoever Greg is or other men,” he assured John as he struggled to bend his other leg up and push John into a better position on top of him. “And you smell good.”

“…Thanks,” John replied, tone a tad husky, and pushed up onto his knees much to Sherlock’s dismay. “You know…I could do with a cuppa, really. I’m not as young as I used to be so I…I don’t think that I can…you know...”

Sherlock scowled at him, “Take them off,” he ordered, yanking them down John’s thighs so roughly that John winced and jerked, grabbing for himself when he was exposed to the warm air of the bedroom. 

“I really don’t think—”

“I want you to have sex with me,” Sherlock said, talking over him and lifting his pelvis to adjust the pillow under his hips. “Right now—and if you copout and use your fingers again I will be extremely annoyed with you…more so than I was before. I know you want to. I want you to. So what’s the issue?”

“The issue, Sherlock, is that we…we shouldn’t…I mean—this is all so quick and I just don’t want us to do anything we will later regret…” John sighed.

Sherlock eyed him and shoved John’s pants more roughly down his legs, crumpling them at his knees, “I won’t regret it,” he murmured.

“Well,” John said, taking a large breath and then looking away when Sherlock frowned at him, “I might…”

“No you won’t,” Sherlock told him, grabbing John’s wrists when he tried to pull up his underwear again. “John, trust me, please, you won’t…you want to…”

John shook his head but Sherlock tensed and pulled himself up into a sitting position awkwardly to look at John’s face with a searching gaze, “Sherlock…I don’t know what I want…I mean, I do, but I…I don’t think this is good for us. I shouldn’t have even done what I already have with you. What if—”

Sherlock kissed him unexpectedly and the strong swell of arousal and affection that it produced made John momentarily giddy, before he grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders and kissed him back with a shaky moan. John couldn’t deny the way he felt when he was kissing, touching, biting or gripping Sherlock; there was something there that spurred him on and drove him wild, that kept him up half the night with lewd and passionate dreams that left John’s sheets wet and his chest heaving. He couldn’t look at Sherlock anymore without wanting to sink his teeth into his pale skin and inhale the rich scent of him. John would often recall when he had bitten his way down Sherlock’s chest or back, and had relived every heady touch of mouth and teeth on skin with his hand wrapped around his aching erection in the drumming spray of the shower, hoping to drown out his cries of ecstasy with the noise of water.

Sherlock scrambled to wrap his arms around his neck and then froze when his mobile chimed, pulling back an inch to glance over the bed at where his trousers were crumpled on the floor.

“…Do you want your bloody phone?” John asked trying to stifle his amusement and look annoyed instead, his mouth wet on Sherlock’s cheek.

“No…” Sherlock replied, though his eyes remained on the floor. “It’s probably nothing…”

“It’s hardly nothing when someone texts you,” John retorted, noticing the way Sherlock’s neck looked as he strained it to peer over the bed. John adjusted Sherlock against him and after a breath bit down on his skin with a groan of pleasure, sucking a large mouthful of Sherlock’s throat to bruise and mark with a fluttering and sparking of excitement. 

Sherlock rocked against him in response to the bite and then groaned, letting his head fall back to give John more access. John moved to mark him below his ear and then pushed him back down onto the bed, bending over him possessively and then stiffening with a sharp intake of breath when their naked crotches touched. Sherlock shuddered and whined low in his throat, throwing out an arm in the next second when his phone chimed again, his fingers wriggling impatiently.

“Get me my phone,” Sherlock whispered, glancing at John when he pulled back. “Please?”

John huffed, bit down on Sherlock’s collarbone, and then shuffled to sit on the edge of the bed and reach over to pick up Sherlock’s trousers, delving into the pocket clumsily and kicking off his underwear at the same moment. Sherlock’s phone slipped in his grip for a moment and John noticed the lingering smears of lube between his fingers with twitch of a grin, turning to hand the phone over; John found Sherlock staring at his erection with wide eyes and parted lips, and John self-consciously covered it with his free hand, blushing.

“Here,” John said, clearing his throat and throwing the phone at Sherlock’s chest, watching as Sherlock ignored it at first and then picked the phone up, turned it around in his fingers and switched it off, all without looking away. John’s eyes followed the phone as Sherlock threw it aside carelessly, and he frowned lightly. “Aren’t you going to look at who it is or what they want?”

“No,” Sherlock grunted, voice almost a growl. “Not important. Don’t care. Not interested. Have better things to be doing—how big is your penis?”

John laughed shortly with embarrassment and glanced at where he’d kicked his pants, suddenly wanting them on again, “…Why?”

“Can I see it?” Sherlock asked, suddenly, immensely interested and gesturing with his hand. “You’ve seen mine—in fact, you can still see mine. And you’ve touched it. Multiple times.”

John’s gaze was pulled to the sight of Sherlock’s twitching length before he could stop himself, and he shook his head, wondering if that was the time, the excuse, to finally leave before Sherlock touched or kissed him again, before he enticed him with the unmarked expanse of his skin.

“Yeah…um, yeah, okay. I suppose it’s only…fair,” he heard himself mumble instead, moving up on his knees again and rearranging between Sherlock’s legs at his prompting. “You’re not going to laugh or anything, are you?”

“What?” Sherlock asked in blatant puzzlement. “No—why on earth would I laugh?”

John shrugged and cleared his throat again, “I…I don’t know,” he muttered, taking a moment or two until he uncovered himself and shifted a little closer to Sherlock’s body as if to hide or shield himself from Sherlock’s gaze. Sherlock stared unashamedly and then sat up a little to get a closer look, blindly reaching for the condom wrapper that was still on the bed, and had probably been trapped under John’s body when he had flopped down beside Sherlock in the afterglow.

“May I?” Sherlock rumbled, waving the wrapper in John’s face, hitting him on the nose with a sharp corner by accident.

“…Sure?” John answered with a dry mouth as Sherlock tore into it with eagerness and then reached out to slowly touch John’s penis with his timid fingers. John felt himself harden further almost instantly and tensed with a grunt, looking down when Sherlock fondled him from base to tip with clear concentration; John cursed and tipped forwards to kiss and bite at Sherlock’s ear and neck, thrusting deliberately into his hand with a low moan that Sherlock mimicked. 

Sherlock dragged fingertips in erratic patterns over John’s hardened skin and then began stroking along him with increasing passion, learning how John liked to be gripped and squeezed and teased extremely quickly; and then suddenly and impatiently rolling the condom on John with a tremble of his thighs. Sherlock fumbled after for the bottle of lube and coated half his hand, a large amount of his pelvis and the crease of his thighs in the process.

John laughed breathlessly and kissed and nibbled along Sherlock’s jaw and chin, pausing to kiss him passionately on the mouth, cupping his face and gazing into Sherlock’s eyes for an embarrassing long time. Sherlock blinked slowly and smiled, glancing away almost coyly when John kissed him again and rubbed his lips along Sherlock’s, pushing him down on the bed.

“Don’t,” Sherlock whinged lowly when John reached between his legs with his fingers. “If you make me—”

“Lift your hips a bit more,” John mumbled and adjusted the pillow under him, slicking his hand in lube to stroke up Sherlock’s backside teasingly, watching the twitch of Sherlock’s hips with a glazed and heated expression as he pushed two fingers into him. John tried not to think about what he was doing again, tried not to linger on the thought that had made him stall and hesitate and second guess before; John just didn’t want to hurt Sherlock, didn’t want to ruin their friendship, even if it was somewhat ruined already.

He knew it was stupid of him, knew that, after all he’d done to and with Sherlock, it shouldn’t be as panic-inducing as it was, but his mind refused to settle completely. For years he’d known who he was, and who and what he liked, and it had all been thrown up into the air and muddled after just one little, ridiculous, experiment with Sherlock. There was more to him, more to them, and John was frightened but excited to find out all he’d apparently missed.

Sherlock squirmed as John adjusted against him eagerly, dizzy with enthusiasm, and pushed the head of his cock between Sherlock’s buttocks briefly as he moved into a better position atop him, pushing Sherlock’s legs a little wider and biting on the inside of Sherlock’s arm with a panting moan. John breathed and shivered above Sherlock for two tense minutes, kissing and sucking and biting a path up Sherlock’s arm, across his shoulder and along his neck before he captured Sherlock’s mouth in an ardent kiss and tipped his hips forward slowly, angling and positioning himself with one shaking hand.

Sherlock stiffened with a gasp and quivered; clamping his legs strongly against John’s waist as John stretched him open leisurely, stroking the back of Sherlock’s neck and biting down on his lower lip when Sherlock’s hand clawed down his tensed back. John paused and pulled his head back to look down at Sherlock’s faintly grimacing face, feeling a lurch in his heart and his gut, overcome with anxiety and guilt and a sudden reeling unease that made him jerk away a little.

“I’m okay,” Sherlock said lowly, stroking his quaking hands down John’s arms and arching his back, wriggling his hips in a very slow and tempting rolling that shot sharp scrapes of pleasure up John’s spine. “Just…give me a moment.”

“I don’t want to hurt you…” John whispered screwing his eyes shut in concentration.

“You’re not—”

“Don’t lie,” John grunted through his teeth, panting and then peeking between their bodies, flushing at the sight.

Sherlock smirked and chuckled nervously, “You’re…bigger than I had originally thought…bigger than…the items I’ve been using…that’s…that’s all—I just…just need…” he babbled, fidgeting increasing vigour and shivering with a new blush of arousal. 

John cradled him closely with an instinctive kiss to Sherlock’s temple and reached between them to rub and stroke Sherlock’s length as he pushed further forward, bending Sherlock with him and admiring the flexibility of Sherlock’s body as he pressed all of himself inside before he stilled and leaned up to look down at Sherlock again. John waited until Sherlock glanced up at him with a shudder and hooked Sherlock’s legs loosely around his waist.

“You okay?” John asked quietly as he adjusted his grip on Sherlock’s body after he throbbed roughly within him, already feeling the unbearable urge to move. 

Sherlock was squinting up at him and trembling, but he nodded eagerly, “Mm—yeah. Yes,” he gasped, squeezing down enthusiastically and with a brief flicker of impishness, canting his hips again as he got used to the sensation and hungered for movement. 

John slowly began to move, thrusting in and out of Sherlock with a barely concealed moan, and then repeating the action with a roll of his hips when Sherlock twitched with pleasure and gripped his arms with a look of delighted shock; letting out an extremely loud groan when John brushed his prostate and took hold of his manhood again simultaneously. 

John bit down on Sherlock’s throat with a sudden and animalistic growl, overcome with excitement, and rhythmically rocked against Sherlock, titling and rolling his hips at random intervals in a deliberate move to teasingly stimulate Sherlock more and more.

Sherlock bucked and clumsily mashed his mouth into John’s jaw on a particularly sharp thrust with a whine, and John glanced at his face to see Sherlock’s pupils extremely dilated as he instinctively reached down and grasped Sherlock’s backside, lifting him up a little more. Sherlock seemed dazed and already tittering on the edge of orgasm, so John surged up against him and bit down on his shoulder, happily relishing the taste and smell of him; the intoxicating desire to claim and possess and mark as he rocked into Sherlock, making his eyes roll back. 

“Ah—Wait! Wait a moment...” Sherlock slurred, scrabbling at John’s back with a low rumbling noise in the back of his throat that was shamelessly wanton. “Wait…wait…I…I’m…I…”

John shook his head and grunted, biting down harder with a wicked curl of his mouth and increasing the movements of his hips, listening only to the urgent noises Sherlock couldn’t suppress and the way Sherlock clung and rutted against him in return. He moved harder when Sherlock convulsed and writhed, jolting the bed into the wall forcefully, and kissed Sherlock’s hot cheek, rubbing his body up against Sherlock’s with a slow and rough arch.

Sherlock’s muscles jumped and quivered as John built up speed, and when Sherlock lifted one leg over his shoulder lithely, John turned and nipped at his shin with a playful and overcome grin, rutting shallowly and pushing moans from them both. The bed knocked into the wall again when Sherlock lurched with a choked laugh that melted into a groan, and John shifted up on his knees, pulling Sherlock’s hips up to thrust down into Sherlock with abandon, angling to hit Sherlock’s prostate again until Sherlock cried out almost violently as his entire body shook in a series of rough spasms.

John panted and gazed down at him with immense passion as Sherlock squirmed wildly, climaxing up his chest in long, forceful, messy, streaks. John groaned at the sight and shivered, slamming down into Sherlock’s tight and throbbing body until his hips stuttered and shifted into something more frantic and strained. Sherlock was still squirming and wheezing when John bent over him tensely and pushed deep with sudden orgasm, groaning loud enough to fill the room whilst the back of his eyes exploded with light.

Collapsing over Sherlock in the next few seconds, John suckled fervently at his throat and gasped, flinching as pleasure ebbed slowly through his body and along his extremities, making them tingle and flex. He listened to the pounding of his own heart and released Sherlock’s neck to nuzzle the side of his face, kissing his ear, his cheek, the side of his nose, and his temple before he gradually pulled out of Sherlock and dropped down next to him on the bed, watching him breath heavily and twitch.

“You okay?” John mumbled almost inaudibly as he reached to stroke down Sherlock’s heaving chest. “Sherlock?”

“Mm?” Sherlock hummed, twitching with a gasp at his touch and then grinning sluggishly. 

John huffed and awkwardly fumbled to lean over him and nip at his ear and mouth friskily, “Are you okay?”

“M’fine,” Sherlock grumbled, swatting John in the face with a trembling hand and then curling it around John’s shoulder to pull him closer.

John lay beside him for a while with his mouth pushed to Sherlock’s cheek, and then heaved up, looking down at the mess on Sherlock’s torso with a faint grimace and a laugh. Slipping to his feet, John took off the condom and stumbled out the bedroom door to wash himself, and then returned to clean Sherlock up, finding Sherlock dozing and softly snoring. John wiped Sherlock down tenderly, careful not to wake him, and blushed when the fuzzy afterglow began to fade further.

Sherlock’s nude body was still extremely flushed and was scattered with bruises and bites. John traced one with his fingertips and then pulled back with a shaky sigh, covering Sherlock up with the bed sheet. He got changed and left Sherlock sleeping, closing the door as silently as he could on his way out; only to turn and walk into the kitchen and straight into Lestrade as he burst into their flat.

“Where’s Sherlock?” He asked, looking annoyed as he scanned the sitting room with narrowed eyes. “Is he here? That bastard turned his phone off and I need him to—what? What’s wrong? Are you flushed?”

“No,” John exclaimed, self-conscious and defensive. “…He’s not here. He went out, actually.”

Lestrade glanced at Sherlock’s coat hanging nearby and frowned, “Without his—?”

“Yeah,” John cut in, shrugging. “Yeah. Weird, huh? But he…he just went.”

“Right…do you know where?” Lestrade asked with a strained sigh.

John shook his head and shrugged again, fighting down his deepening blush, “Nope. Not a clue.”

Lestrade nodded and flashed John a tight smile as he turned and left, “Right. Thanks—when he comes back, tell him to call me, or at least text me.”

“Yeah, sure,” John replied, lifting a hand in farewell and then covering his mouth with it as he glanced back at Sherlock’s bedroom door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback fuels me!


End file.
